Death Flights: A History of Aerial Assassinations in Mexico
During Mexico's "Dirty War," the state committed horrific human rights abuses, including "death flights"—victims, often suspected dissidents, were tortured, murdered, and thrown from aircraft into the sea.
When we talk about airplanes, most of us think of holidays in the sun, exotic cocktails on white sandy beaches, or the thrill of a jet-powered takeoff. But in Mexico during the Dirty War, airplanes served a far grimmer purpose. These weren’t vehicles for escape or adventure. Oh no. They were instruments of death. Flying tombs, if you will.
Between the 1960s and 1980s, Mexico was embroiled in a campaign of repression so brutal it makes your average Bond villain look like a playground bully. The government, hell-bent on wiping out dissent, launched what we now know as the Dirty War. And at the dark, twisted heart of this war was a horrifying practice: the death flights.
Imagine, if you can, being thrown out of an airplane. Not for a skydive, not for the thrill of freefalling through the clouds, but to meet your end in the vast expanse of the ocean below. The sheer barbarity of it makes your blood run cold. And yet, for Mexico’s security forces, this wasn’t some aberration. This was policy. Organized. Systematic. Ruthless.
The Butchers of the Sky
Leading this grim aerial ballet were Arturo Acosta Chaparro and Francisco Quirós Hermosillo, both members of the Federal Security Directorate (DFS). These weren’t your run-of-the-mill bureaucrats. No, they were more like the generals of an unholy crusade, determined to wipe out anyone they deemed a threat to the state.
Chaparro, in particular, had a penchant for theatrics. He didn’t just order executions. He performed them. With a .380-caliber revolver he charmingly nicknamed The Sword of Justice, he’d deliver a single shot to the back of the head of his victims. A nylon bag was tied around their necks to stop the blood from ruining the carpet. Efficiency was key, you see. Then, like a grim parody of a factory assembly line, the bodies were bagged, weighted with stones, and wheeled out to the waiting planes.
These flights, often operated from Acapulco’s Military Air Base No. 7, were anything but covert. They were part of a larger, state-sponsored machine of terror. If you were unlucky enough to be branded a “guerrilla” – and let’s face it, the bar was often depressingly low – your fate was sealed.
The death flights didn’t begin as a polished operation. Like all terrible ideas, they evolved. In the early days, between 1971 and 1974, people were thrown out of helicopters, often on an ad-hoc basis. But by the mid-70s, the Mexican government had turned this into a finely tuned process. Enter the Arava planes of the Mexican Air Force – not luxury transport, but workhorses of death.
The second phase of the death flights, running from 1974 to 1980, was chilling in its precision. A “special group” called the Intelligence Information Group (G.I.I.) was created, blending elements of the military and police. Their job? To disappear people, quite literally. And they were disturbingly good at it.
A Soldier’s Guilt
Now, here’s where it gets personal. Amidst the cold machinery of death, a letter surfaced. Written in 1976 by Benito Tafoya Barrón, a 20-year-old soldier stationed in Guerrero, it’s a chilling confession. In it, Benito warns his brother against joining the guerrillas, recounting how he had personally tied up captives, attached iron bars to their bodies, and hurled them from helicopters. Among the victims, he notes, were two young women.
It’s a stark reminder that these atrocities weren’t committed by faceless monsters. They were carried out by ordinary men – men who followed orders, men who lived with the consequences, men who, in their quieter moments, might have felt the weight of what they had done.
Today, the search for truth continues. Activists and historians are piecing together the grim puzzle, relying on survivor testimonies, government archives, and the occasional handwritten letter. The National General Archive holds vital clues, including documents from the DFS. But access is a battle. The state, unsurprisingly, isn’t too keen on airing its dirty laundry.
Revealing the full extent of these crimes isn’t just about justice. It’s about memory. About ensuring that the victims aren’t forgotten, that their stories are told, and that the world remembers what happens when power is unchecked and accountability is an afterthought.
The Dirty War is a cautionary tale, a grim reminder of how low humanity can sink when paranoia and power collide. The death flights weren’t just a crime against the victims. They were a crime against us all – a stain on the conscience of humanity.
So next time you board a plane, take a moment to reflect. Remember the lives lost, the voices silenced, and the truth that’s still waiting to be fully uncovered. And maybe, just maybe, whisper a quiet thank you that your journey is one of freedom, not fear.
